The Cock-House at Fellsgarth Part 3

"I say," said he to Ashby, dropping the patronising for the pathetic, "could you ever lend me half-a-crown? I've--I've lost mine--I'll pay it you back next week faithfully."

"I've only got five bob," said Ashby; "to last all the term, and half a crown of that will go in the clubs to-night."

"But you'll get it back in a week--really you will," pleaded Fisher minor, "and I'll--"

But here there was a sudden interruption. Every one, from the captain down, looked towards the new boys, and a shout of "lamb's singing,"

headed by Wally Wheatfield, left little doubt as to what it all meant.

"Pa.s.s up the new kids down there," called one of the prefects.

Whereupon Fisher minor and Ashby, rather pale and very nervous, were hustled up to the top of the room, where sat the grandees in a row round the table on which the sacrifice was to take place.

For the benefit of the curious it may be explained that "lamb's singing," the name applied to the musical performances of new boys at Fellsgarth on first-night, is supposed to have derived its t.i.tle from the frequency with which these young gentlemen fell back upon "Mary had a little lamb" as their theme on such occasions.

"Isn't one of them your minor?" asked Yorke of Fisher senior.

"Yes," said the latter rather apologetically; "the one with the light hair. He's not much to look at. The fact is, I only know him slightly.

They say at home he's a nice boy."

"Does he spend much of his time under tables, as a rule?" asked Ranger, recognising the lost property which had hung on to his legs at dinner- time. "If so, I'll take the other one for my f.a.g."

"He's bagged already," said Denton. "Fisher and I put our names down for him an hour ago."

"Well, that's cool. If Fisher wanted a f.a.g he might as well have taken his own minor."

"Fisher major knew better," said the gentleman in question. "It might raise awkward family questions if I had him."

"Wouldn't it be fairer to toss up?" suggested the captain. "Or I don't mind swopping Wally Wheatfield for him; if you really--"

Ranger laughed.

"No, thank you, I draw the line at Wally. I wouldn't deprive you of him for the world. I suppose I must have this youngster. Let's hear him sing first."

"Yes, lamb's singing. Now, you two, one at a time. Who's first?

Alphabetical order."

Ashby, with an inward groan, mounted the rostrum. If anything could have been more cruel than the noise which greeted his appearance, it was the dead silence which followed it. Fellows sat round, staring him out of countenance with critical faces, and rejoicing in his embarra.s.sment.

"What's the t.i.tle!" demanded some one.

"I don't know any songs," said Ashby presently, "and I can't sing."

"Ho, ho! we've heard that before. Come, forge ahead."

"I only know the words of one that my con--somebody I know--sings, called the _Vigil_. I don't know the tune."

"That doesn't matter--out with it."

So Ashby, pulling himself desperately together, plunged recklessly into the following appropriate ditty; which, failing its proper tune, he manfully set at the top of his voice, and with all the energy he was capable of, to the air of the _Vicar of Bray_--

The stealthy night creeps o'er the lea, My darling, haste away with me.

Beloved, come I see where I stand, With arms outstretched upon the strand.

The night creeps on; my love is late, O love, my love, I wait, I wait; The soft wind sighs mid crag and pine; Haste, O my sweet; be mine, be mine!

This spirited song, the last two lines of which were aught up as a chorus, fairly brought down the house; and Ashby, much to his surprise, found himself famous. He had no idea he could sing so well, or that the fellows would like the words as much as they seemed to do. Yet they cheered him and encored him, and yelled the chorus till the roof almost fell in.

"Bravo," shouted every one, the captain himself included, as he descended from the table; "that's a ripping song."

"That sends up the price of our f.a.g, I fancy," said Denton to his chum.

"Your young brother won't beat that."

"Next man in," shouted Wheatfield, hustling forward Fisher minor. "Now, kid, lamm it on and show them what you can do."

"t.i.tle! t.i.tle!" cried the meeting.

Now, if truth must be told, Fisher minor had come to Fellsgarth determined that whatever else he failed in, he would make a hit at "lamb's singing." He had made a careful calculation as to what sort of song would go down with the company and at the same time redeem his reputation from all suspicion of greenness; and he flattered himself he had hit upon the exact article.

"Oh," said he, with an attempt at offhand swagger, in response to the demand. "It's a comic song, called _Oh no_."

It disconcerted him a little to see how seriously everybody settled down to listen, and how red his brother's face turned as he took a back seat among the seniors. Never mind. Wait till they heard his song. That would fetch them!

He had carefully studied not only the song but the appropriate action.

As he knew perfectly well, there is one invariable att.i.tude for a comic song. The head must be tilted a little to one side. One eyebrow must be raised and the opposite corner of the mouth turned down. One knee should be slightly bent; the first finger and thumb of one hand should rest gracefully in the waistcoat pocket, and the other hand should be free for gesture.

All these points Fisher minor attended to now as carefully as his nervousness would permit, and felt half amused at the thought of how comic the fellows must think him.

"Do you--" he began.

But at this point Ranger unfeelingly interrupted, and put the vocalist completely out.

"Did you say `Oh no' or `How now'?"

"Oh no," repeated the singer.

"You mean h-o-w n-o-w?"

"Oh no; it's o-h n-o."

"Thanks--sorry to interrupt. Fire away." Fisher tried to get himself back into att.i.tude, and began again in a thin treble voice;--

Do you think I'm just as green as gra.s.s! Oh no!

Do you take me for a silly a.s.s! Oh no! Do you think I don't know A from B! Do you think I can't tell he from she! Do you think I swallow all I see?

Oh no--not me! He was bewildered by the unearthly silence of his audience. No one stirred a muscle except Wheatfield, who was apparently wiping away a tear. Was the song too deep for them, or perhaps he did not sing the words distinctly, or perhaps they _had_ laughed and he had not noticed? At any rate he would try the next verse, which was certain to amuse them. He looked as droll as he could, and by way of heightening the effect, stuck his two thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat and wagged his hands in time with the song.

Do you think I lie abed all day?